F-Files: Firewatch

This basement hasn’t received the same updates as the rest of the building. It’s tight, damp, and the floor is gritty. The already narrow halls are crowded with blue metal shelves full of white boxes covered in orange stickers. Air comes feebly through rusted vents, whispering past outdated notices that cover corkboards. Charitably described as tiny, Flores is often the last person to complain about not having enough space. This basement makes her feel claustrophobic. Following directions closely, something she is good at, she arrives at a door with a standard federal nameplate: SPECIAL AGENT ALICE WILDE.

She knocks.

“Sorry. Nobody down here but the FBI’s least wanted,” says a voice from within.

Flores enters a reasonably generous storage room being used as an office. Boxes and file cabinets occupy much of the space. Grainy printouts have been taped up all over the walls and the whiteboard. There are two computers, each with three monitors. A stack of old hard drives. Ancient media: CDs and even floppy disks. VHS tapes.

Flores peers closely at some of the printouts: smudged screen grabs from what appear to be old-fashioned online forums. Strings of numbers and characters.

A skeletal form is hunched at the desk, scrolling text on a news site. She turns, expression curious. Alice Wilde is tall and thin. She wears masculine slacks with a shirt and tie. Her sleeves are rolled up, revealing pale forearms and a Timex wristwatch.

She sizes up Flores and forces a smile. “Got something for me?”

“My name’s Valeria Flores. I’ve been assigned to work with you.”

“I know about you, Flores. It’s nice to be popular,” Wilde says with a snort, reaching out to shake hands. “Who’d you piss off to get sent down here?”

“Actually, I’m interested in this assignment. I’ve heard a lot of things, and I’m curious to see if any of it is true.”

“And I thought you were just here to spy on me.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Call it a hunch. But I could use your opinion.” Wilde waves her over, and Flores joins her in front of the computers. Wilde opens a folder and pulls up photographs. They aren’t pretty.

“Cattle mutilation.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“I wouldn’t be much of a doctor if I were squeamish.”

“Good. Yeah.” Wilde sighs and begins to tap the forward arrow, cycling through photos. “What do you think?”

Flores watches over her shoulder. “We default to occult activity when we see these types of things. Looks like here they cut the throats, then we have this big incision.” She points. “Who took these photos?”

“Local law enforcement in four different counties, but focus on the cows for me, Flores. What do you see?”

“They aren’t disemboweled; they don’t appear to be posed. I assume your perps wanted an organ and cut them open to get it. Did they still have their hearts?”

“They did.”

“What was missing?”

“Nobody knows.” Wilde gets rid of the pictures and pulls up a satellite map. “Here, here, here, and here. Now here. Meanwhile, we have a missing person. Meet Hailee Siegel from Ontario, Idaho. Wants to be a dentist.” She pulls up a picture, obviously taken from social media. An ordinary girl with dyed hair holds a cocktail in a bar and smiles for the camera. “Suspected kidnapping. Possible sighting in Barney, Oregon.” Wilde stands, looming over Flores. She picks up a paper map and pins it to the board, then uncaps a red marker. “Hailee goes missing in Ontario. Livestock mutilated at multiple sites. And then sighted in Barney. Allegedly.”

Wilde has a point; the sites indicate a line between the two points, following the highway.

Flores nods. “Cattle mutilation. Possible interstate kidnapping. Sounds good so far. Are there previous cases like this in your F-Files?”

Wilde taps a thick stack of folders. “And these are only what I know of. Two-thirds of these files haven’t been digitized. The only way to know would be to go through them one by one.”

Flores considered the map with its line of Xs. “What do you think it means?”

“It means we’re going to Oregon. Welcome aboard.”

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